


my better side of you

by anoxia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Afterlife, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-30 23:56:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6447256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoxia/pseuds/anoxia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He feels young hands on young skin, old promises kept, his cells realigning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my better side of you

All at once he’s disarmingly _cold_ and _light_ and _calm_. There’s a dull ringing sensation in the middle of his chest and a sudden silence in his ears. He blinks – sees red, green, silver and- Harry.

This feels like a spell, could easily be one. He decides he’s probably on his back, on the floor, out of it, while the fight clatters on around him and he’s here- dreaming. Seeing things again.

He closes his eyes, willing himself to snap out of it, imagining striking Bellatrix back, her face when _she_ falls back, cracks her skull open, expires just like that, painful and final.

It happens when two strong hands grip just below his shoulders, firm, symmetrical. Young.

 _Harry,_ he croaks. He still can’t hear anything, until there’s an airy breath of laughter, from years ago. When he sighs, _Fuck_ , the laughter blooms. Rich and red and beautiful, like fresh wine in summer.

_I get why you might think that, being as old as you are now, but I’m not quite that young, Padfoot._

_Open your eyes._

_Don’t hide from me._

Light, teasing, familiar. His eyes act all on their own and he’s overwhelmed with the sight of bright hazel eyes, bad hair and a gentle smirk. He feels out of breath, long grass under his bare feet, smells wet forest air, hears the rustle of heavy bedcovers and hopeful adolescent whispers. He tastes blood and pure sugar and heavy smoke. He feels cold fingers, layered lips and _home._

 _You are real, aren’t you?_ cracks the air and disrupts his senses, his throat rough and hot. He feels like he should hurt, somewhere, everywhere, but is floating off in the distance instead. Defiant. Before he gets a response he’s being pulled, away – up, closer.

_You’re safe._

Words he heard twenty years ago, words he’s needed for the past fifteen.

_I’m dead._

_Yes._

_I missed you._

His bones fold back into James’ and he knows he didn’t get this wrong. There’s grey everywhere, misting into a dirty white or silver. All he feels is blinding heat.

_I’m sorry._

_No, you’re not._

A command. Forgiveness.

_But Harry -_

_Thank you._

Fight struggles through him, rises into his teeth and tongue and hands, but he understands. James’ fingers clench, possessive, protective. The lexicon of the past fourteen years pressed into the back of his ribs through this dull old cloak.

He feels so warm, gets so hot he burns as his own weight floods back into his body. James is slipping and his fingertips clutch the threads of the jumper he felt, rough and scraping, against his damp cheek that night, and every night in Azkaban.

_Getting rid of me only happens once, you know. This is it now._

The words just fall out of him, then - instinctive, given, fluttering back into step without having to think.

_Oh, great. First my bloody cousin gets the satisfaction of knocking me off, now this. You do realise I already spent twelve years in Azkaban?_

There’s so much buried underneath his words and he feels his eyes flame at James, imploring him to _see_ without digging. All the boyish bastard does is throw this cloud of lilting laughter at him, bouncing and endless. Free.

_You fuck._

His cheeks hurt instantly from the force of the giddy juvenile grin that invades them. He pushes, could sit here forever just like this. Might do. Doesn’t, because then he falls again, leaps back into the only world he’s ever really lived in, belonged in.

They’re so close, connected again, that he can smell Godric’s Hollow, the must of tattered books donated to pass the time, the log fire, the food that nobody could cook very well. He feels young hands on young skin, old promises kept, his cells realigning. And breathless.

He draws back, barely, as much as he can bear, his lips dancing and shifting in time with those opposite. They smile at him, sing at him, dare him:

_I’ve missed you more._

**Author's Note:**

> i also exist [on tumblr](http://elvendorx.tumblr.com) if you fancy indulging me in more soppy james/sirius and general mwpp blather :~)


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